


two of hearts, folded

by owilde



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Demon Deals, Extensive Backstory, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minimal Research Was Done, Paranormal, Romance, The Author Regrets Everything, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, aka demon!Shane, because fuck angst am i right, briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 01:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: “Make a deal with me, and you can have all that you’ve ever dreamed of. Men, women, money, fame, fortune – you name it. Whatever it is, it’ll be yours. Powers you’ve never even dreamed of, abilities beyond what your entertainment can imagine.”“And the cost? There’s a price for everything.”Rosier hummed in agreement. “All of that, in exchange for a promise. I’ll give you seven years to do what you please with – and once the final year ends, well. I’ll take you to hell with me.”





	two of hearts, folded

**Author's Note:**

> aaah okay so. @ justrandome said to me "oh, i want more demon!shane fics" and i went "lmao i'll write one" and we brainstormed and i said "it'll be like max 5k long" and now here we are with an unnecessarily long shyan fic, with an extensive sprinkle of demon!shane. so, thanks for the idea, dick.
> 
> i proof-read this a few times but if there are some glaring errors, feel free to point them out to me and i'll try to salvage the situation
> 
> this project has already taken two hundred years of my life span but i love it sm ugh. all demon names are mostly random and from wikipedia, soz
> 
> ALSO find me on tumblr @ melanalcoholia

21st of October 2010

 

Shane dragged his feet down the street, shoulders hunched up. He knew he looked suspicious – a tall man by himself, his features indistinguishable in the dead of the night. From time to time the light from a streetlamp illuminated his face, casting odd shapes and shadows. He shivered in the cold, and pressed his hands deeper into his pockets.

It was nearing four o’clock. Early, by Shane’s standards – late, by his friends’. If they could be called that. He wasn’t so certain these days. It seemed that people came and went on their own volition, sticking only long enough to make an impact before vanishing off before Shane could do a damn thing about it.

He didn’t mind, not terribly. Sometimes, it would’ve been nice to have something, someone. Someone to come home to after nights like this, when shadows melted into the concrete and stars twinkled too loudly, when everything seemed simultaneously too much and too little. Someone to tell that even in the vastness of the noncalculable universe, there seemed to be little place for Shane.

But there was no one. And there wouldn’t be. So, Shane was left to his own devices with these thoughts that didn’t have the courtesy to leave him be. He thought too much, and too deeply, about everything. The weight of his mind kept him up at night, his chest tight and his heart thudding an anxious rhythm. He was sick of it.

The night had been fun, he supposed. As fun as it could be. Plenty of booze, playing darts, laughter that felt forced only half of the time. Shane had been bought a drink by someone, Anna or Anne or something along those lines. He hadn’t left with her. Not because she hadn’t been pretty, or because he hadn’t wanted to, but because it seemed like a waste on her part to be dragged down with him. A one-night stand could only lead to so many outcomes, none of them desirable.

Was it better to go their separate ways in the morning, hangover pressing their shoulders down as they scrambled for coffee and painkillers, avoiding each other’s eyes? Or was it better to exchange numbers, make future plans and deliver on some of them but not most, only for it to eventually distinguish into nothing, or better yet, for Shane to realise his deep-rooted craving for independence that could only be a burden on a relationship? Or perhaps it would’ve been the best to have a brief fling that would’ve ended in the kind of heartbreak that poets write about, where they bleed into the pages to get rid of the emotions that plague them day and night, night and day?

Shane saw her, and thought about all these things at once, or perhaps in a stream of thought, and knew that he couldn’t leave with her. She’d been disappointed, certainly, and if they ran into each other again at a later point Shane might’ve considered it.

But there wouldn’t be a later point.

He reached the bridge he had to cross to get home to his piece of shit apartment, in the outskirts of town. Third floor, second door from the stairs. Apartment number 32, aptly named. Shane thought about falling down on his bed, sinking into the mattress that was too hard to grant a proper night’s sleep even without the burden of his thoughts. He thought about the small kitchenette, his refrigerator that kept a single bottle of vodka and the bare minimum food an adult man could survive on. He thought about his closet, full of clothes he never wore. The apartment seemed to be the concentration of his life, the centrepiece of everything.

And what the fuck did it amount to? Shane kicked a stray rock, his shoe scraping against the asphalt. The night air smelled fresh, like a field of grass after rain.

His life was a comedic play in three parts, he thought, written by someone who clearly held an ironic sense of humour bordering on sadism. Shane wanted to pull the curtain, do his curtsies and exit the stage. No applause. No encore.

His feet staggered to a pause halfway across the bridge. Shane leaned his arms against the railing, slouching. Cars passed by underneath in a blurry of lights, coming and going to places he’d never know. It seemed everyone else had a destination, a sense of purpose, whilst Shane himself was stuck in a dead-end job, slowly growing more and more restless and dissatisfied by everything.

Life, he’d come to understand, was not fair. He knew he didn’t have the worst of cards – if he’d played right he might’ve won a round. But he didn’t have a colour strike. He didn’t have a royal flush. And he certainly didn’t have any stakes to place, either.

Almost on its own accord, Shane found his right leg being hauled over the railing. He swung the other one over as well and sat there, his fingers curled around the edge he was sitting on, keeping him in place. The wind was picking up, or maybe it was Shane’s imagination.

What would it feel like, to finally let go of everything?

Shane’s fingers uncurled themselves. He inched closer, towards the road below.

“Oh, no,” a voice said from behind.

Shane froze. His heart was thudding in his chest, so loud and so overbearing he felt as though he was dead already, unable to breathe. He turned his head the slightest bit to the right.

A person had materialised next to him. They were leaning their arms against the railing, looking towards the horizon, mirroring Shane’s earlier position. They had dark skin, nearly ink black, with red swirls decorating their arms and legs, bare and exposed even in the cold autumn air. Their form was flickering, fading in and out of existence like a badly tuned TV programme.

The person turned to look at Shane, their eyes flashing pale white. “Don’t be like that,” they said.

Shane stared back, blinking with uncertainty. Surely, he hadn’t had _that_ much to drink? Not enough to make him hallucinate, for sure, and besides he hadn’t taken his medication for some time now, so it couldn’t have been an unfortunate side-effect, either.

“What?” Shane managed to ask. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.

The person scoffed, turning back to look straight ahead. “You’re, what, twenty-five? Why the hell would you waste a good seventy, eighty years of life by killing yourself? What _point_ does it serve?”

“Frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Shane said. “And besides, what—”

“What do I care?” The person asked, laughing a little. “Oh, man. Well, to be honest with you, my boss is riding my ass about recruitment – our numbers have been going down for years now – and I happen to really need this job, seeing as the economy is what it is. I gotta hit the daily quota and congratulations, you lucky bastard, I still need one more for today.”

Shane was a little afraid to ask, but curiosity got the better of him. “One more what?”

The person shot him an amused glance. “One more recruit,” they said, like it was a given fact. “For hell.”

Shane’s immediate reaction was a startled laughter. He gave props to whoever this was for the costume, and the rest of the team for spectacular planning and imagination. He’d never thought he’d get to be a part of an actual prank show, much less in a situation like this. Surely, they couldn’t publish it, considering the circumstance?

“Look, whoever you are—”

“Rosier.”

“—Yeah. That. You can quit while you’re ahead. I’m not falling for your prank bullshit, alright?”

Rosier looked at him, one brow arched. Their eyes seemed to flash with impatience, and something else, a darker force which almost startled Shane. Rosier waved their hand, once, and the scenery around them disappeared.

Shane found himself standing in a pit of darkness. All around them was pitch-black, like a sudden nightfall, and though he was standing, Shane wasn’t sure that there was anything underneath him. His chest felt tight, and his throat constricted like someone was pressing against his windpipe.

From the darkness, Rosier stepped up. They’d grown wings, bony with black flesh stringed thinly across. They seemed to be constantly moving in an almost hypnotic sense.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said that my boss is unhappy,” they said, their voice echoing around in the space they occupied.

Shane swallowed. He lifted his hand in front of his face, and found that he couldn’t see it. Glancing downwards, his body had disappeared as well. It was like his entire self had dematerialised, absorbed by the darkness. “What the fuck is happening,” he managed to croak out. His voice sounded weak and faint.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t believe me if I simply explained this to you,” Rosier said. They grinned. “Show, don’t tell, right? Welcome to the backroom of hell, as it is. No one’s here to take your coat, I’m afraid. Lousy service.”

“Why…” Shane took a deep breath in, one out. “What are you trying to do?”

Rosier shrugged, eloquently. Their wings moved along with the gesture. “I’m trying to offer you a deal,” they said. “You were giving off that desperate sort of energy, so I figured, worth a shot.” They eyed Shane, mouth pulling into a frown. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Okay, fine, we’ll just—”

Rosier snapped their fingers, and the scenery changed again. Shane found himself back on the bridge, standing on the right side of the railing, clutching it like his life depended on it.

He stared down at the road, not truly seeing anything.

“I wanted to give you a chance,” Rosier’s voice floated behind him. “There’s so much more than this, you know. Life doesn’t have to be what it is now. I can give you an opportunity.”

“To do what?” Shane asked. He was glad to find that his voice was back to its normal octave.

“Anything.” Rosier paused, and Shane heard them step closer. “Make a deal with me, and you can have all that you’ve ever dreamed of. Men, women, money, fame, fortune – you name it. Whatever it is, it’ll be yours. Powers you’ve never even dreamed of, abilities beyond what your entertainment can imagine.”

“And the cost? There’s a price for everything.”

Rosier hummed in agreement. “All of that, in exchange for a promise. I’ll give you seven years to do what you please with – and once the final year ends, well. I’ll take you to hell with me.”

Shane turned around, fixing Rosier with a sharp look. “To hell?”

“To hell,” Rosier echoed. “Look, the boss is disappointed in the recent conversion numbers. We only get a handful on people per week from natural deaths, and you know, the less labour the worse the economy. We need more people – and we especially need more people to spread the message around, get recruits. Your life was going to be wasted – by doing this, you’ll have a chance at something bigger.”

“You’d take me to hell,” Shane said, “for what, an eternity?”

“Time is relative.” Rosier smiled, their razor-sharp teeth showing. “But, if you want to think about it like that, then yes.”

Shane closed his eyes with a sigh. “And this… this is real? I’m not having some kind of a weird trip? Someone didn’t slip something into my drink?”

“Scout’s honour,” Rosier said, “though what that’s worth coming from a demon, I’m not sure.”

Shane thought about it, before realising with an unsettling feeling that he didn’t truly need to think about it at all. His limbs felt heavy, and his mind fuzzy, but somehow, he’d never been more certain about anything before than this.

“A deal, then,” Shane said.

Rosier grinned, their eyes lighting up. “You’ll make one?”

“I’ll make one,” Shane agreed.

“Oh, this’ll look brilliant on my records,” Rosier said excitedly.

They stepped up to Shane, and took his right hand. Shane frowned at the touch of Rosier’s cold skin, so cold it burned. Rosier pulled Shane’s sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his pale skin to the night air.

“How does this—”

Shane’s question was interrupted by the sharp sting of pain as Rosier dragged their nail across Shane’s inner wrist, from the crook of his elbow to where his palm began. It left a faint trail of blood, barely noticeable. Shane hissed in pain as Rosier carved symbols along the line, taking their time with it.

“That’s the contract,” Rosier said once they finished, letting go of Shane’s hand. “It’s what we agreed upon. Seven years, and I’ll come back for you.”

“Right,” Shane said. He looked down at his hand. “Do we have to shake hands or something?”

Rosier laughed, like Shane had said something exceedingly amusing. “Oh, no,” they said. “You’ll repeat the symbols on my left hand, and once our palms touch, the deal’s done.”

“Repeat them?” Shane asked, frowning. “You mean…”

“I mean, I’ll give you something to use and you’ll do the same to my arm than I did to yours.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched. “Fine. Let’s get this over with, then.”

Rosier produced a pocketknife, and offered their hand. Shane took the pocketknife with slightly trembling hands, and held the tip of the blade above the crook of Rosier’s elbow, hesitant.

“Do it,” Rosier said.

Shane did.

Rosier’s skin, once cut into, felt like cutting into butter – soft and easy. They never once twitched or showed any signs of discomfort, merely huffing in annoyance at how long Shane was taking.

Once he finished, Shane dropped the knife and let go of Rosier.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Rosier repeated. “Yours should turn into a tattoo after the deal’s sealed. Makes it look slightly less suspicious, you know.”

Shane scoffed. “Always wanted a tattoo,” he mumbled.

The air around them felt electric. Rosier looked at him, their eyes meeting.

“You ready?” They asked.

Shane nodded, once.

Rosier took Shane’s hand and forced their palms to align. For a split second, nothing happened. Then there was a bright flash of light, strong enough to make Shane close his eyes out of reflex. The ground shook beneath his feet, and Shane lost his balance and fell down on his back, his head cracking against the pavement.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Shane opened his eyes. He was alone, lying down on the bridge. He sat up, blinking – it felt like there was something in his eyes.

He looked down at his arm. Sure enough, the carvings had turned into a neatly lined tattoo.

Shane stood up, and kicked a rock. It flew across the bridge, and lodged itself into the side of a building, three miles off in the distance.

Shane grinned.

 

14th of December 2010

 

When he’d been young, Shane had heard all about the sins of the mortal life. He’d sat in the back row of the church, wedged between his parents, listening to the preaching about the abhorrent nature of sexual deviation, about the burning flames of hell that awaited those people and everyone who didn’t abide by the words of the church, which he found rarely coincided with the words of God.

He’d sat there, thinking about his first girlfriend, and his first boyfriend. The first time he’d had sex with a girl, the first time he’d kissed a guy, hesitant and unsure. The way he’d held hands with Sarah, the way Jim had spat on him in front of the other kids at school, because he wanted nothing to do with a _fag_ , no matter how much his tongue had been down Shane’s throat the night before.

The church bench had always felt uncomfortable, no matter how much Shane had shifted or shuffled. It had been an almost mutual sense of discontent. Shane didn’t want to be there; the church didn’t want him there. It had worked well for them so far.

Until now.

Shane stepped through the church doors, hands behind his back. His skin prickled, the way it always did when he did this. The hairs at the backs of his hands stood. His eyes flickered between black and regular for a while, before settling on his normal brown ones.

Shane took a deep breath, and let it out with a smile.

It had been a while since he’d been here. It was a church not too far from his apartment, a walking distance away. A quaint little place, with decent staff and beautiful ceremonies. He’d seen a wedding service a few months back, delightful in its normality, and three funerals, delightful in their grief.

There would a funeral today, as well, later in the evening. Shane knew, because he’d known the man who was to be buried. Harvey Baxton, a kind enough man with a bit of a drinking problem and trust issues deeper than the graves in his backyard.

Oh, and, yes. A serial killer, by happenstance.

Shane didn’t particularly care for his style or method, and Harvey wasn’t the biggest catch as far as killers went. But they’d been something like friends. And Shane had enough respect for Harvey to at least see through his funeral.

Not many others agreed. His wife was going to be there, and his sister, albeit reluctantly. That was about the extent of the guest list. Shane didn’t think there would be a buffet, afterwards.

He made his way to the altar, and sat down on it, facing the front doors.

It didn’t take long for the priest to show up. Shane heard the backdoor open and close, and footsteps halt for a second. Then there was an exasperated sigh, before the footsteps continued towards him, echoing around the church.

Rachel stopped in front of Shane, her arms crossed. “What are you doing here?” She asked in a sharp voice. “I thought I was clear on my request that you stay away. You unnerve the people.”

Shane peered at the empty benches behind her, squinting. “The people?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. You should leave, before the ceremony starts. I wouldn’t want you to catch fire during prayers.”

Shane grinned, tilting his head. “Your concern is touching,” he said. “I’ll leave in a minute, I just wanted to see you. You know, before the funeral.”

Rachel eyed him, frowning slightly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be there,” she said after a while. “You’ll only make it worse, I fear.”

“ _Worse_ ,” Shane echoed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be like that, Rach. Harvey was a friend.”

“Yes,” Rachel said wryly, “that’s precisely what makes it worse.”

They stared at each other, silent. Shane felt his skin itch, like it always started to after a while. He lifted his hand and glanced at the tattoo – it was starting to glow faintly red. His mouth twitched in annoyance.

“I need to go,” he said, dismayed.

Rachel looked at his hand as well, shaking her head. “Almost as though you don’t belong in here,” she remarked.

“Never have,” Shane said cheerfully. “Never will. Almost like making a deal with a demon was my faith all along, yes?”

Rachel pursed her lips. “Please leave.”

Shane stood up, stretching his arms above his head. His back cracked. “I’ll see you at the funeral, then,” he said as farewell.

“I hope not,” Rachel mumbled, so quietly that if Shane’s hearing hadn’t gone through significant upgrades, he wouldn’t have caught it. “Demon scum.”

Shane slammed the doors shut behind him, hard enough to crack the wood.

 

He did attend the funeral. Harvey’s wife – Delorah – was a delight, a frail little thing with enough wit for both her and her late husband. She regarded Shane with a calculating look, before saying, _I see why you were friends_. Shane took it as a backhanded compliment, and when he sat next to her in the church, his arm burning underneath his sleeve, she didn’t move away.

Harvey’s sister didn’t share these opinions. She sat on the opposite side of the church to them, arms crossed during the entire ceremony. After they’d moved outside and the casket had been dropped down, she’d stormed off without a word. Shane never so much as learned her name.

As he was walking away, Delorah seized him by his hands. “I know that you’re lost right now,” she said, gravely, “but there will be salvation. Believe me, boy.”

Shane smiled. “Salvation’s not for the likes of me.”

Delorah huffed. “Remember my words,” she said. “That’s all you have to do.”

Shane skipped town that night, without saying goodbye to Rachel. He thought about their nights together in her small apartment, the way she’d take her tea with two sugars and milk, the way she smelled of old books and flowers, the way she knew how he drank his coffee, the way her lips felt chapped because of the cold winter.

The way it deteriorated because, after all, she’d never really been the one for someone like him, had she?

It hurt more than he thought it would.

 

5th of May 2011

 

The car sped down the highway with speed way beyond the limits. It was only the two of them, alone on the road, in the middle of the desert. The moon was high in the sky, shining above the red mountains and sand, pale against the black of the sky.

Kieran took his right hand off the wheel to turn to music up, the sound blasting in the night.

Shane had his feet propped on top of the dashboard, crossed by the ankles. The warm summer air caressed his skin. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the soft backrest.

“So,” Kieran started, raising his voice to be heard above the music, unnecessarily. “Mexico?”

Shane smiled, opening his eyes. “Why not? Beautiful people, good food – _great_ music.”

“For how long?” Kieran asked, glancing at Shane. His dark curls flowed in the wind, whipping across his face. His nose was still broken from when Shane had punched him, weeks ago. The crookedness gave it an attitude, Shane thought. Not that Kieran, twenty-four and already at a war with the world, needed it.

Shane shrugged. “Does it matter? For as long as I want to. I still have six years, I can waste some months in Mexico.” He paused, staring straight ahead at the road paving its way ahead of them. “And will you stay?”

Kieran didn’t reply right away. He tapped his fingers against the wheel to the beat of the music, lips pursed.

It was a heavy question. Shane was fun, but Shane wasn’t easy. He knew his presence was tiring and corrupting once you got deep enough, even though the top layer was mischief and laughter and exhilarating freedom. It was better for people to not get attached.

“I’ll stay,” Kieran decided. “For a while.”

“Probably a mistake,” Shane pointed out. “Don’t say I never warned you.”

Kieran smiled, looking unfairly attractive with his freckled face and dark brows and crooked nose. He shrugged, looking, for all intents and purposes, free. “Probably,” he agreed. “But once you corrupt my innocent soul, you can tell me you told me so, hm?”

Shane laughed, throwing his head back. “I will,” he promised.

 

Mexico was hot, and sweaty, and _loud_. Shane revelled in it, sleeping his days away and drinking through the nights. He and Kieran got a room in a shit motel. One bed. No one lifted a brow, and Shane thought that maybe Mexico could be fun for a little longer than a few months.

The beer was cheap, and even if it hadn’t been, Shane was as rich as they came. He began to wonder, about five days in, what people thought of him and Kieran, what they saw. They never strayed too far apart, attached by the hip in the worst ways possible.

Shane knew that he was a bad influence. He knew that he should’ve quit while he was ahead. But Kieran had chosen to come along, had chosen to be with Shane, had chosen to stay. So, was it really Shane’s fault, if something happened? Kieran was his own person, free to do what he wanted to. Shane had never—

His eyes flew open in the dead of the night. Shane blinked at the ceiling, Kieran fast asleep next to him.

Had he ever influenced Kieran, without trying to? A thought there, a nudge here – could it be possible? Did Kieran really want to be here, in goddamn Mexico, with _him_? Or was it just a selfish fantasy Shane had created by himself, for himself?

He sat up and pressed his head into his heads, knees drawn up. The room felt suffocating to him.

Had Kieran ever cared about Shane?

 

They carried on as usual for a few weeks, pretending that everything was alright. If Kieran noticed that something was bothering Shane, he never mentioned it. They ate and they drank and they went to see music shows. They slept together and they held hands, and if Shane started shirking away from physical contact, then Kieran never mentioned that either.

If Shane started talking less, Kieran never mentioned it.

If Shane kept giving him strange looks, Kieran never mentioned it.

If Shane started sleeping with his back turned to him, Kieran never mentioned it.

Until, of course, he did.

They’d come back from the bar after another near silent night out. Shane was sprawled on the bed, fingers locked under his head, feeling vaguely sick. There was a fly on the ceiling. Shane could see it in vivid detail, every scale and surface. He tore his eyes away at the sound of footsteps.

Kieran emerged from the bathroom, his arms crossed, and looked at Shane with a haunted expression.

“Hey,” Shane said, frowning. “What—"

“What’s wrong?” Kieran interrupted, his voice low. “Did I do something? Did _you_ do something?”

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked up at the ceiling, the thought of eye contact suddenly overbearing and too much. The fly had flown away. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t—do you feel like yourself?”

Kieran let out a startled laugh. “What?”

Shane pressed his eyes shut. “I mean, have you ever felt like… like you’re not supposed to be here?”

“Oh, wow,” Kieran scoffed. “If you want me to leave, just fucking say so. Don’t pull this passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Shane’s eyes snapped open and he sat up, looking at Kieran. “No, that’s not what I—I meant, what if I’m somehow influencing you? Your actions? What if I’m taking away your free will and I don’t even know it? What if you don’t…” The sentence drifted off before he could finish it.

Kieran’s eyes softened, his shoulders relaxing. “You’re really dim, sometimes,” he said quietly. “You’re not influencing shit. You’re just a paranoid man who can’t understand why anyone would love him, and now you’re projecting that fear on to me. This wasn’t because of your _abilities_ , this was because of _you_.”

Shane found himself speechless.

Kieran left that night.

Shane stayed in Mexico long enough to grow resentful of it.

 

29th of November 2011

 

The light in his bedroom flickered. It had been doing that for a while, now. Shane’s eye twitched in annoyance as he laid on his back, a bottle of Smirnoff clutched in his right hand. It was half-empty.

He’d been lying in virtually the same spot for two days now, only getting up occasionally to use the bathroom. Some would say that he was in a state of depression. Those some would be right. Shane sighed, closing his eyes.

The flickering of the light burned through his lids, like an annoying after image you couldn’t get rid of. Shane pursed his lips. He let go of the vodka bottle and let it levitate to the floor, only splashing some of it on the already dirty carpet. When was the last time he’d cleaned? A few weeks ago? It was getting hard to remember, days blurring and out of existence in a bland order.

It was night outside, presumably. Shane had forgotten to close the blinds before collapsing on the bed, and it seemed to hardly matter right now. Every day and every night was the same. It was the same as it had been before the deal, before everything.

Meaningless. Dull. Monotone. Barely existing, or existing in a loop.

It had been almost a year since Rachel, since he’d left her. Not too many months since Kieran. Sometimes he wondered if he should go back and ask to make things right, but that didn’t seem fair – on him, or on her. Shane had, after this year, five long years left. Was he going to waste it on the pettiness of humans? Should he?

He seemed to be above these people. He didn’t have to work for every little thing, he didn’t have to socialise and play nice, did he? That was what the deal had been, that was what Rosier had said. Do what you want. Anything. Make the most of what you have left.

And he was, what? Moping over some lost flames? He was beyond these kinds of childish emotions. He should be out there, enjoying himself in the most hedonistic sense possible.

The light flickered again. Shane’s eyes snapped open and he reached out, towards the light, until it popped and fizzled and turned off completely.

The apartment around him was perfectly still and silent. Shane got up and walked out.

 

“Wow,” George said, looking at Shane from over his pint. “You’ve been to Mexico? That’s so, like, exotic, isn’t it?”

Shane tipped his head back and downed the rest of the cocktail in one smooth gulp. He wiped at his mouth and set the empty glass on the table. It cracked, but only a little. Not enough for normal people to notice. “Exotic, I don’t know,” he replied. “Beautiful and cheap, yes.”

“If I could get a week’s holiday off, I’d go,” George told him. “Honest to God, wouldn’t even think twice about it.”

Shane raised his hand towards the waitress, ordering another drink. “What’s stopping you now?” He asked, glancing at George.

George smiled unhappily. He was in his late-thirties, married (Shane presumed) and downright miserable. There was a picture of a kid inside his wallet, a faded school photo. Shane wondered why it was that he wasn’t getting a new one, a more recent picture. He wore nice shoes and a nice suit and drove, he’d told Shane, a nice car. But it all seemed to boil down to materialistic nonsense.

“What’s stopping me is that I have to work seven days a week, two jobs, just to keep my son in school. My wife, she has three jobs. And sometimes it’s still not quite enough.” George sighed, sipping his beer. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for those who are even worse off. Poor bastards.”

Shane hummed in agreement, staring down into his green cocktail. There was an olive in it. He let it un-wedge itself from the side of the glass and drop down to the counter. “And why not leave it?”

“Why not _what_?” George looked at him, incredulous. “Leave my family? How could I? They’re all that I have.”

Shane shrugged, twirling his finger around the rim of the glass. “You can always meet new people,” he said. “Have a new family. Have no family at all. Do whatever you want.”

George’s lips pressed into a thin, annoyed line. He was clutching his glass of beer with white knuckles. Shane thought, amused, that if it had been _him_ holding a drink like that, it would’ve shattered into a million pieces already. People were so weak, in comparison.

“This sort of…  _devil may care_ attitude might work well for you, but _I_ have responsibilities, to real people. My son is thirteen, for God’s sake, what would he think if his father just got up and left some day? What would Carrie think, if her husband of ten years went to live his life in Mexico, without a word?”

Someone bumped into Shane, who remained perfectly still, sitting by the bar counter. He licked his lips. This wasn’t working out like he’d thought it would. “Sometimes, the right thing to do is to do what you want—”

“Oh, piss _off_ ,” George interrupted, glaring at Shane. He stood up, staggering slightly on his feet. “Go bother someone else, kid.”

 _Kid_. Shane didn’t move as George left, leaving his half-drunk beer behind. This man, who fell prey to the domesticities of life, who had no sense of backbone whatsoever, who thought he could tell _him_ what to do – and he’d called him a kid?

Shane downed his drink and spun around in his chair. The door was falling shut behind George.

Shane caught up with him three blocks down. It had started to rain, pouring down so hard it was hard to see a damn thing. George stopped by the entrance of an alleyway, fiddling with his umbrella in an attempt to get it open.

Shane reached out and touched the space between his shoulder blades, imitating a gun. “To your left,” he growled. “Now.”

George dropped his umbrella. The street was desolate except for them, with a few cars passing by in a blur. Somewhere in the distance, thunder crackled, loud and exhilarating.

“Your left,” Shane repeated. “ _Now_.”

George stumbled on his steps and almost fell down several times, tripping over his own feet, but he made his way halfway through the alleyway before Shane told him to stop. His back was still turned to him; Shane couldn’t tell if he recognised his voice or not.

Shane closed his eyes in concentration. He let the feeling of it wash over him, sinking into the warmth like slipping into a bath. His shoulders relaxed. “You will go home tonight, to your loving wife and son,” he started. His voice echoed around them. “You will tell them that you no longer care for them, that you have a lover down in California and you want to leave them for her. You will pack your _nice_ things and take your _nice_ car and you will drive down Mexico, and you will wake up once you get there and you will _regret it_ so heavily that the guilt is nearly overwhelming – but you will not die, because there’s still a _flicker_ of a chance that you can fix this, but you can’t, and you won’t, and you will live a sad, pathetic life alone in a motel, with no one to love you. And you be sorry you tried to deny me the first time.”

He opened his eyes, and the warmth disappeared. He left George trembling in the alleyway, soaking in the cold November rain.

 

The headline on the next morning’s newspaper read, _GEORGE TELLER, 39, FOUND DEAD IN HIS CAR – SUSPECTED SUICIDE_.

Shane washed the bitter sense of guilt in his stomach away with a bottle of whiskey and a good night’s sleep.

 

13th of July 2012

 

The backrow of the church felt as uncomfortable as always. The pews seemed to be made of concrete itself – there way so way to shuffle to make sitting on them more comfortable. Shane picked up a book of hymns from in front of him and lifted his feet up on the backrest of the next row, flicking through the pages absently.

Shane hated Texas. It was hot and barren in a way that reminded him of Mexico, and the little city scenery it had felt forced. It was the last place he’d wanted to be in, after Washington DC. So, naturally, he’d found a small town, fifty miles off Houston, and bought a lavish apartment in the centre of it for himself and settled in.

He went to church. He bought groceries. He went to the local bar each Friday night, to flirt with the bartender and throw darts with the men. He _participated_.

It had been fun for a month, to pretend to be like the rest of them. But now Shane’s patience was wearing thin by the day. His apartment was too small, the local apples were mouldy because of a bad season, the people were no fun. And he always, _always_ won in darts.

Shane was getting bored, frankly.

The church doors were pushed open. A sliver of light cut through the red curtain on the floor, expanding and then disappearing as the doors fell shut again.

Shane looked to his left, halfway through turning the pages between _Long Has Satan Fought, Resisting_ and _O Worship the King_.

A man stood there, precisely in the middle of the carpet, his arms crossed. He was wearing an expensive looking, dark pinstripe suit with silver cufflinks. His shoes were recently polished, and sharp. His hair was sleeked back in a natural looking way, not a strand falling out of place.

Shane’s mouth pulled into a frown. His arm was starting to itch – after forty minutes. A new record.

“You’re Shane, yes?” The man asked. His voice was soft and inviting, like a cup of coffee.

“Maybe,” Shane replied. He’d learned to be wary of most people. The fact that this man knew his name wasn’t surprising – he was something of a celebrity in town. “And you?”

The man sighed. He sat down on the same row as Shane, but on the other side of the carpet. The red thread separated them like a river. “Names are so useful, aren’t they?” He mused. He’d crossed his fingers, as if he was praying. “They can invoke fear, regret, joy, longing… so much emotion, with so few syllables. Incredible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t ask for a lesson in linguistics,” Shane said dryly. “I asked for your name.”

The man tsked. “Never ask directly,” he reprimanded. “You might not get the answers you want.”

“It seems like I’m not getting any answers at all.”

The man’s lips quirked in a brief, amused smile. He turned to look at Shane with piercing eyes. “What would you feel, I wonder,” he drawled, “if I were to say my name was Rachel? Kieran? _George_?”

Each name felt like a punch to the gut. Shane dropped the book of hymns from his hands; it fell to the floor, upside down. He didn’t move, keeping his eyes on the man, his face a careful blank mask. “Let me reiterate,” he said evenly. “What’s your _name_?”

The man’s eye twitched, the slightest bit. “Your tricks of persuasion won’t work on me,” he said. “And even if they did, you’re clearly not very good at controlling them, are you?”

“Your name,” Shane said. “Give me a goddamn _name_ —”

“Olivier,” the man spat out. “One of my names is Olivier.”

They eyed each other in silence. Shane’s arm was itching like hell.

“Olivier,” Shane said, testing the name out. It felt like it burned on his tongue. “Thank you. Now, _who_ are you?”

Olivier laughed, smooth and deep. “You know who I am. You know _what_ I am.”

The corners of Shane’s mouth twitched up, almost on their own accord. “I thought as much. What do you want?”

But before Olivier could reply, the church doors swung open again with a loud creak. The only priest in town, Michael, walked in. He smiled briefly at Shane, who smiled back, before turning to Olivier. His back went rigid with tension the moment he noticed him.

“Matthew,” Michael said. The name felt charged. “When I told you to stay away, I meant it.”

Olivier stood up slowly, stepping up to Michael. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his head tilted at a considering angle. “Did you forget that I can tell when you’re not being honest with me?” He asked, his voice low. “I rather thought lying was a sin, Michael. But then, you’d know all about those, wouldn’t you?”

Michael didn’t respond. After a prolonged silence, Olivier pushed past him and walked out.

Michael shot Shane an apologetic look. “Old mistakes,” he explained. “They tend to follow you around after the fact.”

“Oh,” Shane said, smiling. “Don’t worry. I know all about that.”

 

Shane lost in darts that night for the first time. Olivier bought him a drink, or two, and once the crowd dwindled they relocated to Shane’s apartment.

Olivier whistled appreciatively at his décor, then took one look at Shane – a calculative, judgemental look – and announced that he’d move in and help him.

Shane didn’t put up a fight.

Olivier taught him about controlling his powers, taught him how to throw darts, taught him some useful tricks in learning new languages – Latin was his favourite, he told Shane, because it felt so goddamn ironic. He taught Shane how to open his eyes to the world, to recognise people like them at first glance and how to protect himself from those who weren’t as amicable. Shane tested his limits, pushed the boundaries around. A suggestion here and there, precise telekinesis, strength that allowed him to lift cars and break doors and crack bones.

Olivier knew what he was doing. He’d taken the same deal as Shane, but years before. He had less than a year left, and he’d decided to do something meaningful with the time he had left. He travelled around, teaching and preaching and apologising for the people he’d hurt along the way.

Shane didn’t understand why, precisely, he bothered to go back and rekindle old relationships. They were done and dusted. But Olivier said he didn’t want to go to hell with a guilty conscience, and Shane left it at that, not wanting to prod further.

Olivier was fun to be around. Shane laughed with him, at him, because of him. Two months into their friendship, Shane finally won a round of darts. When Olivier clapped him on the back with a wide grin, his eyes crinkled, Shane felt he’d found the kind of a friend he hadn’t had since childhood.

Summer turned to autumn.

Shane woke up one morning to an empty house, and a note on his kitchen table.

_Sorry. Time’s up._

He crinkled the paper up and left that night, setting the house of fire in his wake.

 

31st of December 2012

 

“No,” Rachel said as soon as she opened her door to find Shane standing there.

It was snowing, almost a blizzard – the street behind him was a hazy pale picture of a peaceful cul-de-sac in Salt Lake City, completely average yet so special. The tip of Shane’s nose was frozen, and his hair had turned white with frost. He shuffled on his feet.

“You’ve moved,” he said.

Rachel pursed her lips. She’d dyed her hair dark brown, her brows as well. She was wearing an ugly sweater and jeans with wool socks, mismatched in the most adorable sense. She’d crossed her arms defensively, her painted nails tapping against the sides of her arms in an impatient rhythm. “I have,” she said in a clipped tone. “How did you get this address?”

Shane shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Asked around,” he muttered to his shoes. “They said you might be in Utah, so I went through some town records. You’re the only Rachel Bethany Atwood in this city, did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” Rachel said dryly. “How interesting.”

Light poured outside to the porch from behind her. The house smelled of red wine and roasted vegetables. It was a regular, small house – fit for two people. Shane’s chest felt tight. “Have you…” He paused, looking up at her. “Do you have guests over?”

“My husband’s sister is visiting,” Rachel told him, not trying to make any effort to soften the blow.

Shane felt as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. “Oh.” He cleared his throat, sniffling. “Well, I’m glad that you’ve moved on, then.”

The hard lines on Rachel’s face softened, if only for a while. “Did you think I’d wait around for you?” She asked quietly. “Shane. It’s been two years. You left without a word, what was I supposed to do?”

“No, you’re right,” Shane agreed. “You’re absolutely right, I was just… surprised. That’s all.”

Rachel glanced inside the house over her shoulder, before turning back. Her brows were drawn into a pitying angle, her mouth frowning. “Has something happened? Why are you here?”

Shane shouldn’t have come here, this had been a mistake. He wasn’t Olivier, he didn’t have to go around making apologises as if he owed any. His fist clenched out of reflex. He wasn’t Olivier.

“A friend of mine died recently,” he managed to say. “And I wanted to see you. That’s all. I’ll go now.”

Shane turned around and took a few steps, before a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned around to find Rachel looking at him.

“Look,” she said, sighing. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? You look like you haven’t eaten in a while.”

“Why would you invite the devil into your home?” Shane asked, shaking his hand free from her grip. “I thought you’d have learned from the last time. Me, no, but you’re the better one out of the two of us. Isn’t that what you told me? That I don’t deserve redemption, that I’m a mons—”

“No,” Rachel breathed out. “Bygones, Shane. That was years ago.”

Shane stepped backwards, on to the sidewalk. “I’m sorry for coming over,” he said. “Really, I am. I shouldn’t have. Go home to your family, please. And… and happy New Year’s, Rachel.”

He didn’t turn around to look at her as he left, walking down the desolate street.

 

Kieran was harder to find, as it turned out. Shane asked around in Mexico, in Washington, in Michigan. No one had seen him or heard from him in over a year. One woman told him that he’d come back from Mexico, tired and bitter, and asked what the fuck it was that Shane had done to him.

Shane hadn’t even had the guts to answer her.

He’d been looking for some months when someone tugged him by the sleeve in a sleazy bar in Wyoming. Shane stopped and turned to look, coming face to face with girl who looked like she couldn’t have been a day older than twenty. He looked harder, and realised why that was.

“What the hell is a vampire doing in Wyoming?” He asked, eyeing her critically.

She rolled her heavily painted eyes. Her golden highlighter shone brightly against her dark skin, even in the badly lit bar. “The same sort of business that a demon would, I suppose,” she said. She had an English accent, accentuated by the long-drawn drawls of the crowd around them. “I’m here to have fun.”

Shane sat by her table, leaning back. “Fun? In Wyoming?”

Her lips quirked. “Fair enough.” She turned to inspect her nails. “I hear you’re looking for someone?”

“News travels fast,” Shane muttered, mostly to himself. His throat felt parched. “Why? Who are you?”

“I’m Shannon, and I believe I can help you.” Shannon smirked at him. “For a price, of course.”

Shane had half the mind to tell her to piss off and leave him alone. If he really wanted to, he could find Kieran by himself. But it would take time. And he was running against the clock as it was.

“What price?” He asked.

She eyed him. “I hear your kind of people can influence others,” she said, eventually.

“Yes,” Shane said, even though it hadn’t been a question.

Shannon smiled. “Well, the thing is that I’m having a bit of a problem. See, I’d _love_ to make amends with my girlfriend, but her bitch of a mother has her locked up in her house against her will. She’s probably starving there, because Lord knows that woman won’t touch blood if it kills her.” She paused. “I’m worried, alright? So, you come with me to tell her mother to piss off, and I’ll tell you where to find your fling. Deal?”

“Buy me a drink and then it’s a deal,” Shane said.

Shannon pushed her untouched cider across the table, and quirked a brow. “Deal?”

Shane took a sip and smiled. “Deal.”

 

Shannon’s girlfriend’s mother was, as advertised, a piece of work. Shane had to tell her three times to kindly invite Shannon in, leave her house and walk to the park on the other side of town to take a nap on the bench before she reluctantly shuffled away in her slippers.

Shannon stood in front of the house for a while, silent. Then she turned to look at Shane. “You’ll find your man in a motel in Arizona. It’s called Dead End, by Highway 60. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” He made to leave, then stopped. “You’ll be alright?”

“Don’t see why you’d care,” Shannon said flippantly. “But, yeah. Gotta go rescue my damsel, don’t I? I’ll see you around, demon.”

Shane saluted her and then he was off.

 

The Dead End motel was a piece of shit. Shane pulled into the parking lot in the middle of the night, and killed his ignition. The radio flickered off.

He sat in the car for the better half of an hour, head pressed against the wheel. What was this worth? He’d apologise, and then what? Leave again? How was it that he’d been given a second chance at enjoying his life, and all he’d done was to fuck it up even worse?

Maybe he was just that kind of a person. The kind of person who messed up even the best of things.

The receptionist was more than willing to give him the room number for someone matching Kieran’s description, even without Shane using an inch of his powers. He headed for room 28 on the second floor, his stomach twisting in uncomfortable knots.

Shane knocked on the door, three times.

“The door is open,” a familiar voice called from inside.

Kieran was sitting on the bed with a bottle of Jack, eyes trained on the TV in front of him. His hair was pulled up into a bun, a few strands escaping. He’d lost most of the freckles. He still looked as gorgeous as before.

“You cut your hair,” Shane said, quietly.

The bottle dropped and would’ve crashed on the floor if Shane hadn’t stopped it mid-flight, and let it carefully levitate to the floor. Kieran stared at him, mouth open in shock.

“Hi,” Shane said weakly. The door fell shut behind him.

“How did…” Kieran pressed down at his eyes with his palms, shaking his head. He dropped his hands and blinked up at Shane, frowning. “How did you find me?”

“Asked around for long enough,” Shane shrugged. “To be fair, you pretty much went off radar.”

“Yeah, for a fucking reason,” Kieran snapped. He took a deep breath, looking away. “What do you want? Another trip to Mexico? I hate to break you the news, but I don’t—”

“I want to apologise,” Shane said, and Kieran fell silent. “I want to apologise,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“Apologise,” Kieran echoed. “Why?”

Shane realised the truth of the situation as the words came to him. “Because… I want to leave this behind. I’m going to go to Los Angeles, lay low until my seven years are up, and then be done with this life. I need to tie all loose ends around the country before I do that.”

“And I’m that?” Kieran asked. “A loose end?”

Shane didn’t reply, and Kieran scoffed, shaking his head.

“I figured you’d come back,” he started quietly. “When I left, in Mexico. I thought you’d come after me. That it couldn’t end there.”

“But it did,” Shane supplied. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Kieran bit his lip, huffing out a laughter. “You can say it, you know.”

Shane frowned. “Say what?”

Kieran smiled at him sadly. “That you told me so.”

 

Shane left for Los Angeles that morning, driving against the sunrise with a weight off his chest and a new sense of freedom.

 

31st of December 2013

 

 _LA BUZZFEED DEP. NEW YEAR’S HOUSE PARTY – KICK 2014 IN WITH A BANG! $5 ENTRANCE FEE, DOORS OPEN AT 9PM AND CLOSE AT 5AM._ Underneath the official text, someone had scribbled with a ballpoint, _FREE BOOZE!!!_

Shane pocketed the invitation, feeling nervous. He hadn’t been out in some time, not even to the local bar, though his co-workers had done their best to invite him along. In the beginning, at least. The invitations had dwindled after he’d politely rejected them all, citing family business or work or exhaustion, _but maybe some other time, really_.

He’d figured enough moping was enough. One night out wouldn’t hurt, and besides, it was New Year’s. He didn’t particularly want to spend another New Year’s Eve alone, drinking and feeling sorry for himself. Not this year.

He brushed imaginary dust off his denim jacket and walked into the house, feeling trepidation settle in his stomach and nestle there, getting comfortable.

The music was loud, and overbearing. A hit mix from the past year, it seemed, with someone working the DJ booth with little enthusiasm and the power of booze. Shane made his way to the kitchen to grab a drink, weaving through the crowd of people.

Some said hello, some nodded. No one stopped to talk to him, which Shane was fine with. Some people gave him a wide berth, for reasons that went beyond him. Maybe he gave off that kind of an aura that told people to stay away.

He settled in the corner of the living room, sipping white wine from a red plastic cup. Was this what his life had come to? Drinking wine from a plastic cup like he was a teenager again, sneaking out of the house through the creaky window?

The house felt hot. Shane rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, glancing around the place. He didn’t see any familiar faces, which didn’t come as a surprise – he didn’t have many friends at work. It had never seemed like a necessity, before, but now as he stood awkwardly in the corner, he wished he’d at least been on speaking terms with _someone_ here.

“Cool tattoo,” a voice said loudly from his right.

Shane turned to look, and found himself face to face with a man, about his age, with short dark hair and warm eyes.

“What?” Shane asked, blinking at him.

The man gestured towards his right wrist. “That tattoo,” he repeated. “It’s cool.”

“Oh.” Shane glanced at the contract. No one had ever mentioned it before aloud to him, at least not in a positive context. Sometimes it was easy to forget about; other times, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. “Well, thank you.”

“Does it have like, a meaning?” The man tilted his head to get a better look, and Shane offered his hand up for inspection. “Those are enochian symbols, right? I’ve read about it in a few books, you know, about possession and stuff like that. I mean, it’s probably mostly bullshit, but…” He squinted down at the arm. “I’d have to pull up some books to translate these, though.”

Shane stared at the man, who was now tracing his finger across the symbols. “Uh,” he managed, “it’s—yeah, enochian, yes. I’m, uh… I like the paranormal, so, I thought it would be neat.”

The man looked up from his arm and let go of it, eyes glowing with excitement. “You like the paranormal, too?”

Shane felt his back sweating slightly. He regretted opening his mouth. “Yeah,” he stammered. “Big fan. You know, demons and… and stuff.”

“Oh, demons are the worst,” the man breathed out. “I’m into ghosts. The thought of being able to communicate with the dead is so interesting, right? Like, I’m sure they have so much to tell.”

“I don’t…” Shane swallowed. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Or demons. I think they’re interesting concepts, but there’s no scientific evidence to back them up with.”

The man’s smile grew. “Oh, you’re a sceptic, then?”

“You could say that,” Shane said. His throat was parched; he sipped his drink nervously.

The man offered his hand. “Ryan, definitely _not_ a sceptic, Bergara.”

Shane shook the offered hand, letting himself smile. “Shane,” he introduced. “Madej.”

“I’ve never seen you around before,” Ryan said. “You’re new?”

“I don’t make a fuss about myself,” Shane shrugged. “I started last October. Tech stuff, you know. Some writing.”

Ryan nodded along as he talked, clearly listening. “Yeah, me too. I really want to produce my own show at some point, but right now it’s mostly, you know, intern stuff. Even though I’ve been here for a year.”

Shane took an extensive sip of his wine, and noticed Ryan’s lack of a cup. “You want a drink? I can go get you one.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Ryan waved his hand in dismissal. “I’ll go get a beer and we can—I mean, if you want to, I’d have some theories to run by you? If you’re interested?”

Shane grinned. “I’d love to.”

They talked for hours, secluded by themselves in their own corner of the room. Ryan told him about how he’d fallen in love with the paranormal from a young age, all of it stemming from his intense fear of what was hiding in his closet when he went to sleep, and what lurked beneath the closed blinds of his windows, staring in.

He'd conducted his own investigation into the history of his middle school after a student had claimed they’d seen a ghost in the science wing. As it turned out, an old teacher had hung himself in that very hallway. Ryan had made pamphlets from scratch to spread around to the students, to keep them informed, before being called to the principal’s office for a stern talking to.

After that, he’d been banned from the arts and crafts room outside of classes.

He had a way of talking that made Shane hang on to every word he said. He told stories in a very engaging way, using gestures and doing impressions that made Shane laugh until there were tears in his eyes. Both had forgotten their drinks, the mostly full cups still in their hands.

They were startled from their conversation when people around the house started excitedly counting down from ten to zero.

“Oh,” Ryan said, glancing at his phone. “It’s almost midnight.”

_Seven, six._

Shane’s throat felt dry. “Here’s to twenty-fifteen,” he said, raising his cup in a toast.

 _Four, three_.

“To twenty-fifteen,” Ryan echoed.

 _One_.

The house erupted into loud cheers as they knocked their cups against each other, grinning brightly.

 

15th of May 2015

 

The lake seemed to glimmer in the sunlight, looking almost alive with the rolling of the tides. Shane peered into it through his sunglasses, his arms crossed. The air was stilted and hot, like a warm blanket.

“So, this is Silverwood Lake?” He asked Ryan over his shoulder. “This is what we drove two hours for?”

Ryan emerged from behind him, carrying a bag on each shoulder and a blanket in his arms. He dumped the blanket on the sand unceremoniously, and dusted his hands off. “Yep,” he confirmed. “Welcome to paradise, baby.”

Shane looked further down the sliver of beach they were on, and saw the empty bottles and discarded corks and condoms and disposable plates and cups. “I wouldn’t go as far as to call it that,” he said. “But this is better than a seven-hour drive to somewhere else, so. Fair enough.”

They set their blanket across the sand and unpacked their bags. Shane pulled out a bottle of soda and a book and laid down on his back to read, trying to use the book as a shield against the glaring sun. He could feel Ryan sit down not far from him, staring at the lake.

It had been Ryan’s idea. They had a week’s vacation at the same time, and neither had any other pressing business to do, so Ryan had suggested they do something together. Shane had made vague plans to catch up on work and sleep, but Ryan had fixed him with a hopeful look, and, well. What else was he supposed to do?

All other lakes in California that were larger than a puddle were hundreds of miles away. Shane enjoyed driving, and thought he had the patience to sit in a car for close to eight hours, but Ryan had put his foot down.

“There are plenty of decent lakes that don’t require a million pit-stops and pee breaks in the middle of the fucking road,” he’d reasoned, pulling up a google search. “Look, there’s—there’s this nice lake, like, eighty miles off. We’ll go have a nice picnic, and forget about work for a while. It’ll be fun.”

“Can we bring dried fruit?” Shane had asked, looking at pictures of the lake over Ryan’s shoulder.

“Sure, we’ll bring your goddamn dried fruit,” Ryan had laughed. “Apricots, right?”

Shane smiled behind his book at the memory. He’d never had a friend who remembered what kind of dried fruit he liked. Then, he’d never had a friend to go on a road trip with, either. Kieran had been different, in more aspects than the fact that they’d been together.

He shook his head, ridding his head of thoughts about Mexico.

There was a crack and a fizzing sound, followed by Ryan asking, “Shane?”

“Listening,” Shane mumbled, still reading.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ryan started. “You know how I said I’d love to do a show of my own? You know, write and produce something that _I_ would want to see?”

Shane dog-eared the page he was on and set the book down on his chest. “Yes,” he said slowly.

Ryan turned to look at him. “Well, I thought, what would I want to see? What kind of content do I like to watch?”

Shane bit his tongue from blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. “And what’s that?” He asked instead.

“Paranormal,” Ryan said, in a _duh, you idiot_ voice. “You know, like a low budget, fun, ghost-hunting show. Something that I could manage. It’s a bit ambitious, but if I cover some of the expenses myself, like travel costs and whatever, it could work, right?”

Shane eyed him. Ryan was smiling, half nervous and half excited, holding a can of Pepsi in his hand. Shane had never really noticed how nice his eyes looked, especially when he could see every tiny detail in them if he looked hard enough.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “It could totally work. There’s one complication, though, isn’t there?”

“What?” Ryan asked, his smile dipping.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Shane said, grinning.

Ryan broke into laughter, and threw him with an empty can. It bounced off Shane’s stomach and rolled behind him. “Don’t be a dick,” he said, smiling. “That’s the other thing, though. I’d like you to do the show with me.”

Shane blinked at him, confused. “Me?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “No, I was talking to the fucking demon behind you.”

 _Or the demon in front of you_ , Shane thought nervously. Things were fine and dandy like this, whilst Ryan remained oblivious to his real form. What would he do if he found out? Shane didn’t want to lose _this_ , whatever this was. He wanted to take all the joy that he could out of the time he had left, which was a few years, and a little bit on top. Doing a show like that…

But Ryan wanted to do the show with _him_. With Shane.

“Yeah, alright,” he said eventually in a measured tone. “I’ll do it.”

Ryan’s smile brightened. “You will?”

“Bring it on, buckaroo,” Shane said, smiling as well. He let his eyes wander to the sky above. There were a few wisps of clouds visible in an otherwise clear blue sky, seemingly still.

“We could start planning next week,” Ryan’s voice said. It sounded far away. “Locations and stuff like that. I’ll talk to management, too.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed absently. “Sounds good, Ry.”

There was a pause.

“Ry?” Ryan repeated.

Shane pursed his mouth. “Testing it out,” he said defensively. He looked at Ryan, who was smiling at him.

“I like it,” he said.

They spent the rest of the day on the beach and watched the sun set, before driving back to LA. Ryan fell asleep halfway through the drive. Shane turned the radio off, glancing at Ryan from the corner of his eye.

He turned back to the road, smiling faintly.

 

3rd of September 2015

 

The floorboards creaked underneath Shane. _Ominously_ , Ryan would’ve said, if the cameras had been rolling. If he’d been there. But Ryan was asleep downstairs, curled up in his sleeping bag. Still snoring, presumably. Hopefully. Shane had his fingers crossed on both hands.

Shane walked across the second store hallway and down to the end of it, where Suzanne’s bedroom was. Or had been, when she’d been alive. The dead didn’t seem to care too much about property rights after their passing, Shane had come to find out.

He hoped that Ryan was still asleep. This was risqué enough as it was, with cameras and audio recorders downstairs. Shane wasn’t sure how many times more he could claim that his conversations with the inhabitants of the places they visited were just the wind, or the rustling of clothes.

The bedroom door didn’t creak. Shane wondered who kept it oiled – the house had been abandoned for nearly a decade.

The inside of the room was the same as it had been before, when they’d been there with Ryan. Untouched, dusty framed paintings clearly made by a child; rainbows and dogs and castles in the middle of the woods. A single, small bedframe, pushed to the back of the room. There were pressure marks from where Shane and Ryan had sat. The lamp on the bedside table hadn’t been turned on in years.

Shane stood there in silence for a while, waiting. He reached out, and the lamp flickered on almost hesitantly, like it wasn’t sure that it was supposed to do that.

“Get out of my room,” a voice said from behind him.

Shane turned around. Suzanne was standing by the door, arms crossed. Her jeans had holes in their knees, and her violet jumper with a knitted butterfly on the back was spotted with dirt. She was pouting.

“We need to talk,” Shane said. “You’ve been bothering my friend.”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Please,” she huffed. She blew a strand of hair away from her face. “You’re the nasty people breaking into my home. I don’t owe you respect.”

“No,” Shane agreed. “But if you’re going to take your anger out on someone, take it out on me. Ryan’s done nothing but be respectful and kind.” Like he always was, when they visited a place. He didn’t even know that the things he believed in were real, and yet he still talked to them like they were normal people, like they weren’t pitiful and a menace.

Suzanne eyed him, considering. “You’re not like him, are you?” She asked sharply. “There’s something different about you. Something weird.”

Shane let his eyes flash black briefly, before they returned to normal. “Something like that,” he said.

“Oh.” Suzanne looked disappointed. “A demon. I should’ve known.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “You should’ve. And I’m telling you this once, right now – back the hell away. Ryan doesn’t know that you’re here, and he doesn’t know what I am. I’d rather it remains that way. But if you keep messing with the audio and knocking him off balance, I’ll have to intervene. And neither of us want that, right?”

Suzanne considered his words in silence for a while. Shane crossed his fingers that Ryan was asleep and wouldn’t come investigating. He wouldn’t know how to explain this without saying too much, and he couldn’t afford to let something like this slip. Ryan would be terrified of him.

“ _Fine_ ,” Suzanne said eventually. She looked cross. “I’ll leave you two alone. But if you come back, I can’t guarantee I won’t do something worse.”

Shane wasn’t sure what qualified as _worse_ to a nine-year-old, but he refrained from saying anything about it. “Good,” he said. “Now, I’ll go back to sleep, and we’ll leave tomorrow morning, and everything will be cool. Yes?”

“Yes,” Suzanne repeated. “Jerk.” She blew a raspberry in his direction before vanishing down the hallway.

Shane climbed the stairs down, pausing at every creak. Ryan was still asleep, facing away from the front door. Shane let out a relieved sigh. He hadn’t heard. He was still in the clear, for now.

Agreeing to do the show with Ryan had been the best and the worst decision Shane had ever made, he thought. Best, because it meant spending time with Ryan, and hearing his silly theories, and seeing the excitement whenever something – even the most minor of things – happened. Worst, because Shane was terrible at keeping secrets, and because his mind still hadn’t stopped exploring alternative outcomes for every decision. If he made the flashlight turn off, would Ryan notice it was him when editing the footage? If he didn’t, would Ryan be disappointed? If nothing ever happened, would Ryan want to give up?

If, and when, and why, and how. Shane was tired of _thinking_.

He slipped back into his own sleeping bag, and let the camera pointed at them unfreeze.

They left the next morning as promised. And as promised, Suzanne didn’t appear. Shane smiled as he closed the door behind them.

 

“I’m telling you, it was a fucking ghost, Shane,” Ryan said, pointing at his laptop screen. It had been a week since they’d been at the house, and Shane had already gotten his hopes up that nothing had showed up on the footage. “No, come on—look! See?”

Shane rolled around in his chair, and Ryan rewound the footage. It showed the two of them asleep, back to back. The clock in the corner of the frame skipped a beat between 2:33 and 2:35 am. Shane swallowed.

“It’s just a technical error,” he said. “Cameras tend to have those, sometimes.”

Ryan gave him an unimpressed look, the one that made Shane’s heart stutter. “ _No_ , they don’t,” he argued. “You have to admit it’s weird. Give me that much, okay? It’s weird, right?”

Shane raised his hands up in surrender. “Fine,” he said, “it’s weird. But it’s not ghosts.”

Ryan turned back to editing, but not before Shane saw him smile. “One day, I’ll capture something on camera that you can’t deny. Just you wait.”

Shane’s stomach twisted nervously. “I’m ecstatic already,” he drawled.

He couldn’t go on like this.

Ryan had to know, sooner or later.

But not yet, Shane decided as he started typing up his notes. Not yet.

 

6th of January 2016

 

“So,” Ryan started. He licked his lips nervously, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead of them. “I don’t want to do this.”

Shane leaned his head against the passenger seat window. It felt cold to the touch. He glanced at his phone – forty-five degrees, and it was only early in the evening. They were driving down a desolate road somewhere in Hidden Springs, past the tunnel and further into the woods. The trees looked stringy and dark as they zoomed past them, driving just a little under the speed limit.

“This was your idea,” Shane reminded him. “ _Oh, let’s do a demon_ , you said. _It’ll be fun. I won’t be scared_.”

Ryan let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not—I’m not scared, okay? I just think that this is a bad idea. I mean, we’re going into the fucking woods for the night? If a demon doesn’t kill us, something will. I bet there’s weird people living there.”

“There’s weird people everywhere, Ryan. I bet there’s a weirdo in your neighbourhood.”

“My neighbours are incredibly nice,” Ryan argued, lifting a finger. “And I won’t have this slander against them.”

Shane smirked, staring out through the window. “Just sayin’, one of them is definitely a serial killer.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan muttered, “do you think there’s serial killers in the woods? Is that how they get their prey? Shane, what if we get lured into a trap by an actual serial killer?”

“You’re the one researching this shit for fun, you tell me,” Shane said. “Maybe we’ll find an abandoned cave where the killer keeps their victims. That’d be a fun place to stay the night, right?”

To his delight, Ryan laughed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Shane huffed. “Oh, many things, I’m sure. You could make a list.”

“You know what, I will. I’ll make a list and then I’ll flaunt it to your stupid face—”

“We’re not in an episode of Friends, Ryan.”

Ryan sighed. It started to rain, fat drops dripping against the window and the roof of the car. “I wish we were,” he said sadly. “I really wish we were.”

The drove for another forty minutes. The rain got worse as they went on. Ryan’s face became increasingly peaky.

It _had_ been Ryan’s idea. He’d texted Shane one morning about a supposed case of a demon roaming the woods in the Angeles National Forest, somewhere near the Bare Mountain. He’d been excited – _a potential case so close to home!_ – and Shane had agreed that they should cover it, albeit reluctantly.

They hadn’t had a demon yet. They’d been to a house which was supposed to have had a demon, but which had been, to Shane’s relief, empty. He’d made the lights flicker once, so that the episode would have something interesting in it. Ryan hadn’t appreciated the thought, it seemed, once they’d gone to sleep and the quietness of the house had settled in.

Shane was hoping this would be another case like that. All talk, no substance. Or at least a serial killer, something tangible and real that he could explain away without having to open a Pandora’s box.

They left the car by an old parking lot meant for hikers. Shane clambered out, slamming the door shut behind him.

It had gotten colder. Maybe too cold for it to be natural. Shane’s face pulled into an unamused expression as he stared into the forest around them. Everything felt still, despite the strong wind which whistled in his ears. It felt like something was asleep here.

“Shane?” Ryan’s voice asked from behind him, concerned.

Shane turned around and smiled. “Yeah?”

Ryan pushed a bag into his hands and took one for himself. Their cameraman was hanging back, fiddling with settings. Ryan let out a long-suffering sigh as he gave one last fleeting look towards the road.

“Let’s go, then.”

They hiked deeper into the woods, with Ryan helming the group with his phone’s GPS. He’d gotten coordinates to an approximate location, he’d told Shane, from an internet forum which had been last updated in 2005.

“And that’s not something a serial killer would do?” Shane had asked, amused. “Give you coordinates to follow?”

Ryan had swatted at his arm half-heartedly. “Shut up, Shane.”

Shane smiled to himself, glancing at the woods around them. Birds had gone quiet about ten minutes ago; he wondered whether Ryan had noticed or not. Most likely yes, but he didn’t want to mention it. Saying things aloud made them more real.

They walked for half an hour, before Ryan dropped his bag on the ground with an air of finality.

“This is it?” Shane asked, halting in his steps.

“Should be,” Ryan confirmed. “Now we’ll just… do our thing.” He paused, staring into the woods. “God, I really don’t want to.”

“Oh, well,” Shane said, “if we die, I’d imagine they’ll find our bodies before we start rotting.”

He heard Ryan mumble _Jesus Christ_ under his breath, and grinned.

“Can you—we’re about to have a sleepover with a _demon_ , Shane,” Ryan said, incredulous but still smiling. “This is some serious shit, man.”

“Right, because demons exist,” Shane replied, shaking his head. “Come on, Ry—” He stuttered, realising he’d never used the nickname on camera. “Look, on the off chance that there really is a demon lurking in the woods, what’s the worst it could do, huh?”

Ryan shot him a look. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Possess us? Drag us to hell?”

“It’s not gonna happen.” Shane started unpacking their stuff. His spine was tingling uncomfortably; something was here. Something stronger than him. And if it so much as touched a hair on Ryan’s hair… “We’ll be fine.”

They set camp on the foot of a rock formation, which gave them some cover from the wind. The forest around them was eerily quiet, and they tried to fill the silence with small talk and a game of cards, waiting for something to happen. Hoping nothing would.

Ryan told him about the supposed demon, called Marchosias – they quickly dubbed him Marco. He’d been living in the woods since the late sixties, terrifying campers into hospital condition one after another. Marco was, supposedly, something of a local legend – though Shane had never heard of him. It wasn’t that big of a surprise. He’d done his best to stray away from other demons after Olivier.

They finished another game of poker – Ryan won. Shane stared at his hand: a seven of clubs, three of spades, King of spades, and a two of hearts, folded in the top right corner. He lifted the card up towards Ryan.

“What’s up with the folding?”

Ryan looked up from where he was packing the rest of the cards away, and flushed. “Oh.” He looked back down and away from Shane. “I used to go out with this… with someone, in high school. I got the deck as a birthday present during my senior year. It was like a thing, like because we were dating we sort of were the two of hearts. It’s just a dumb thing like that.”

Shane looked at the worn-out card, smiling. “And you’ve kept the deck this long? Must’ve been some high school sweethearts.”

“Something like that,” Ryan mumbled, still embarrassed.

“Well,” Shane said, handing his cards over, “I think it’s downright adorable. Don’t fret over it.”

Ryan eyed him suspiciously. “Not cliché?”

“No.” Shane thought about his own romantic gestures, which had boiled down to _look, I bought you a tequila with an umbrella._ “Very original, I’d say. Romantic. I’ve never had anyone fold a two of hearts for me.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been with the right people, then.”

Shane smiled. “Maybe,” he agreed. “We’ve never really talked about our past relationships, have we?”

Ryan put the deck back in his bag and zipped it. He wrapped his coat tighter around him, shivering slightly from the cold. Shane regretted that they hadn’t started a fire. “No, it hasn’t really come up, has it? It’s not very relevant.”

“The cameras aren’t rolling right now.”

Ryan’s guilty smile revealed Shane had hit the nail on the head. “I know,” he said, quietly. “It’s just not something I like to dwell on.”

Shane huffed in amusement. “I’ll drink to that.”

Now Ryan’s expression turned curious. He peered at Shane through the dark of the forest. “Troubled past?” He guessed.

“Something like that. Various girlfriends and boyfriends in high school and college, then a jilted small-town pastor and a free spirit that I seriously fucked up with because I let my own paranoia get the better of me.” Shane shrugged, staring at the ground. “Stuff like that.”

There was a long period of silence, during which Shane didn’t dare to look up. His stomach felt like a bundle of nerves. Had he said too much? Too little? Had he said something wrong? What if Ryan wasn’t as accepting as he’d hoped, what if—

“Oh,” Ryan exclaimed. He let out a jittery laugh. “Oh, thank fucking god, you’re not straight, either.”

Shane blinked at him. “What?”

“I was worried,” Ryan explained, still laughing. “Oh my—‘cause you never know, you know? When someone’s safe and when someone’s not. Oh my god, okay, well, in that case. The high school sweetheart’s name was Devon, and I was with him for three years. So, the card thing is super sappy when you think about it. And then I went out with this cool ass person in college, Dee. They were nice, but we weren’t together for long. And then this girl, Emma, up until three years ago. Broke it off when work got too much.”

Shane’s face slowly broke into a smile, and he joined Ryan’s giggling. Their voices echoed around the forest. Somewhere a little far off, birds scattered off into the air in a sudden spurt of flight, flapping their wings in panic as something stirred awake from the ground, spreading its long, thin fingers like branches.

 

Ryan fell asleep around two in the morning. Shane sat next to his sleeping form, his knees drawn up. Their cameraman was asleep a little further from them, and the cameras – turned off, for now – were still pointed in the direction of Shane and Ryan.

The forest had started to come alive, the past few hours. Shane’s skin stood up as he listened to the sounds around them. The trees formed a stringy, dark landscape, their leaves rustling quietly in the wind. It had become slightly misty; the air had gone cold, colder than before. Shane’s eyes were trained at his surroundings, squinted.

After an hour, something called for him, from the forest.

He stood up quietly and walked towards the voice, leaving Ryan asleep by their campsite.

He was waiting for Shane by the foot of a tree, leaning against it. His dark limbs were practically indistinguishable from the branches of the tree. Only his milk white eyes peered at Shane through the dark, not blinking.

“Marco,” Shane said. “Marchosias,” he amended.

“Shane Madej,” Marco greeted. His voice had an echo to it, almost like a glitch. “An honour.”

“Is it?” Shane asked. The energy radiating off Marco was ancient, and musty. Tainted. “What do you want?”

Marco shrugged, gathering his limbs and standing up. He strode slowly towards Shane. “What do I _want_?” He repeated. “Not much, to be candid. Mostly to be left to my own devices, to have some well-earned peace. What I need, though… that’s another question.”

Shane was getting more and more annoyed by the minute. He shifted on his feet, crossing his arms. “What do you need, then?”

Marco stopped a small distance away from him. He smiled, his rotten teeth showing. “Souls,” he said. “I need souls, to keep me alive. Not yours, mind – you’re too much like me. But your friends…”

“I still have a soul?” Shane was genuinely curious.

“In a very rudimentary sense of the word.”

“I see.” Shane paused, shifting around. “You can’t touch my friends.”

Marco raised a brow, amused. “I can’t?” He asked, tilting his head. “And who will stop me – you?”

“Yes.”

“Obviously,” Marco laughed. “I hate to be the bearer of the bad news, but you’re nothing compared to me. An ant, at best. What can you do to save them, I wonder?”

Shane’s chest felt tight, akin to the anxiety he was familiar with by now. He didn’t have the physical or mental strength to match up to Marco, true enough. All he had was verbal power. “Please,” he said, almost pleading. “I have a little over a year left with him. With Ryan. I can’t—nothing can happen to him before that.”

“Mmh,” Marco hummed. “A little over a year, true. Ryan, was it?”

“Yes. You can’t have him. I can’t—I wouldn’t—you just can’t.”

“I just _can’t_ ,” Marco echoed. “A weak premise, I must say. And the other one?”

Shane shrugged. “A cameraman. If I had to choose…” He let the sentence trail off, not willing to finish it.

“I see.” Marco was silent for a while. “Well. I get a lot of people coming over, you know. I suppose, for once, I could let a few… slip by. As a token of respect for a brother.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Shane drawled. “I’d say see you around, but… I hope not.”

Marco nodded, and began to withdraw back into the forest. “I’d take everything out of that one year, if I were you,” he suggested, his voice disappearing slowly. “Before it’s gone.”

Shane was left standing alone in the woods, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

21st of August 2016

 

“What kind of a nerd even are you if you haven’t seen Star Wars?” Ryan asked, incredulous. He was sitting cross-legged in his office chair, leaning forward towards Shane. “I mean, not to sound like that one asshole nerd who’s like, _you haven’t seen Star Wars_ , but—you haven’t seen Star Wars?”

Shane raised a brow, sipping his latte. “Ryan, as your friend, I think you should know something.”

“What?”

“You sound like that one asshole nerd.”

Ryan laughed, throwing his head back a little. “Fine,” he chuckled, “fair, I deserve that. But seriously, we have to remedy this.”

Shane fixed his glasses and turned back to his laptop. “What do you propose?”

“A marathon,” Ryan said. “You, me, the prequels and the original trilogy, lots of wine. This Saturday.”

“You had me at ‘lots of wine’,” Shane mumbled, tapping at his screen, which had frozen. Fucking Apple. “Seriously, though, sounds good. Your place?”

“Sure,” Ryan agreed. “I have a better TV, anyway.”

Shane turned back towards him, giving him a _look_. “Bullshit,” he said. “I have a forty-inch flat screen.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “and I have a forty-five-inch flat screen. Fuck you.”

“Stop measuring your dicks, boys,” a voice called out from the next row over.

“Fine,” Shane hissed, lowering his voice. “Your place, then.”

 

Shane arrived at Ryan’s flat at precisely two o’clock, on the dot. Ryan let him in and accepted his bottle of cheap red with a genuine smile. They settled on the living room couch, slouched comfortably within a small distance from each other, glasses in their hands.

They’d gotten through a film and a half when Shane realised that he was comfortably tipsy. They watched Anakin’s romance play out on screen, laughing at the pathetic lines he’d been given.

“Look,” Ryan said, giggling, “the ‘I hate sand’ line is super funny when you think about it out of context, but, _but_ —” His voice got serious. “But, when you think about it, he grew up as a slave on a sand planet, right? So, obviously, he’d hate sand, because that represents everything about his childhood that he suffered through and it’s the thing that ultimately takes his mom, in a way – oh, spoilers.”

Shane waved his hand in dismissal. “I don’t really care,” he said. “Tell me more about this theory of yours.”

“Right, well, that’s it. He hates sand not because it’s rough and coarse and gets everywhere – although that too – but because it’s a reminder of his tragic past, and everything’s he’s lost and will lose. You know, even though George Lucas’ writing fucking _sucks_ , if you squint hard enough—”

“Nooo,” Shane wailed, falling down against Ryan’s side. “No, it’s not secretly a poetic masterpiece, Ryan, for the love of God.”

Ryan laughed. He didn’t move away from Shane’s touch; they watched the rest of the movie leaning against each other, side to side.

Episode three started playing. Ryan’s hand was resting against Shane’s leg, his fingers tapping the rhythm of the opening theme into his skin. Shane’s head found itself nestled on Ryan’s shoulder. Their glasses laid forgotten on the coffee table, half-full.

“You see,” Ryan said in a low voice, “this end battle, between Anakin and Obi-Wan? It’s actually the most tragic thing in the prequels.”

“How so?” Shane mumbled. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more comfortable in his life.

“Because all Anakin’s wanted since episode one has been a father figure. Someone to look up to, someone who’ll take care of him. That’s why he falls for Palpatine’s bullshit. And Obi-Wan wants a brother-in-arms, a soldier, an obedient Padawan. It was inevitably going to clash. If they’d both stopped to realise the situation, if Obi-Wan had tried a little harder to understand, then maybe Anakin wouldn’t have turned. And ultimately, that’s the Jedi Order’s fault, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Shane said. “I don’t really… that’s very well thought out, Ry. Very well thought out.”

“Well, it’s mostly what I’ve read online,” Ryan admitted. “But still. The prequels are a true tragedy.”

“You know what’s a true tragedy?”

“What?”

“All the men’s haircuts in these films.”

Ryan laughed, and Shane felt the tremors against him. His heart skipped a beat, an uncomfortable lurch, and he knew he was fucked. Shane closed his eyes, pursing his lips. Why did it have to be Ryan? Why did it have to be the two of them, in these circumstances? Why did he only have one fucking year left until he was dragged to hell, forever separated from the one person who’d made him genuinely happy in the past ten years of his life? Why, why, why—

“—but hey, at least Padme’s fucking rocking it, isn’t she?” Ryan was saying, laughing a little.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed weakly. “Yeah, she deserves better than Anakin, really. She’s doing well for herself, got a respectable job and friends, presumably. What can Anakin even provide, you know?”

“Love,” Ryan supplied. “Most people want that, in some form.”

“By most people, do you mean you?” Shane felt himself veer into a dangerous direction, but he didn’t stop.

Ryan shrugged. “I mean, yeah, definitely. I think love’s important. It’s the one thing you can’t take from a person. Wealth can come and go, and happiness, all of that – but if you really love something or someone, that’s not just gonna go away. But I know that might just be me.”

“No,” Shane said. He was watching the movie, but not truly seeing it. His heart was beating loudly. “It’s not just you.”

They moved on to New Hope, not detangling themselves from their position. Ryan felt soft and warm against Shane, whose heart kept thudding nervously in its cage as if trying to escape. The room felt too small and uncomfortable, but at the same time, Shane never wanted to move.

“Do you think Luke fell for Han?” Shane asked, impromptu.

Ryan thought about it for a while in silence, as the cantina scene played in the background. “Maybe,” he eventually said. “I definitely think it’s possible. Wouldn’t you?”

“A ratchet looking, young Harrison Ford?” Shane scrunched his nose. “I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Ryan sounded amused. “I would. Tall, handsome, a little bit of a rebel.”

Shane’s heart felt like it permanently lodged itself in his throat. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. His voice got a nervous edge to it. “Sandy brown hair, a real sceptic, sarcastic to the point of obscene. I definitely would fall for that.”

They sat in silence. Shane’s stomach was doing flips, or maybe some sort of an elaborate dance. He felt sweaty, and terrified, and so very much alive that it almost hurt.

“Well, in that case,” he started, his voice shaking only a bit, “I think I could definitely fall for an optimistic believer, who’s the real hero of the story he’s a part of. Someone who wants to see the best in everyone. Someone good, and kind, and generous—”

Ryan interrupted him with a kiss.

Shane’s mind stuttered to an abrupt stop, all tracks halting and screeching.

Ryan’s lips felt chapped, and he tasted like red wine, and it was a little sloppy—

—and Shane had never felt happier in his entire life.

 

31st of December 2016

 

“No, come on, you’re doing it wrong.”

“No, I’m not, fuck off.”

“No, you are—here, just let me—”

Shane danced away from Ryan with the bottle of champagne, twisting the cork. “No, I _got it_ ,” he assured Ryan, frowning at the bottle. “You just twist and pull.”

Ryan broke into laughter. “You don’t just twist and pull, for fuck’s sake, there’s a technique to it—”

The cork flew off with a loud pop and bolted to the ceiling, before dropping down on the kitchen floor. The champagne poured over and Shane rushed it to the sink, letting his fingers get drenched. He watched the pink foam drip down against the iron. “Okay,” he admitted, still holding the bottle. “There might be a technique to it.”

Ryan shook his head with a smile. “I told you. Why can’t you ever listen?”

“Some sort of a fault in my programme,” Shane shrugged. “Hand me a paper?”

They managed to get their glasses full, and there was still some champagne left in the bottle at the end of it. The clock was ticking down towards midnight as they stood in Shane’s kitchen, drinking and talking. They’d decided to spend the New Year’s alone, because, as Ryan put it, this was their first New Year’s together and it was _important_ and _fun_.

Shane did think it was important and fun, he did. But there was a never-ending voice at the back of his mind which kept whispering nasty thoughts to him, like _this isn’t forever_ and _you should spare him the pain and leave_. He did his best to force it down and ignore it, but sometimes it was more difficult than not.

Ryan was so humane, so alive, that Shane sometimes found himself in awe of it. He’d lost himself sometimes on the way, had forgotten how to live and not just breathe. But Ryan made it look so easy. Of course, it wasn’t always sunshine and daisies – nothing was – but it wasn’t what Shane was used to, either. It wasn’t a doomed relationship in an American small town, it wasn’t a passionate fling in Mexico, it wasn’t a high school tween romance – it was something realer than that, something more grounded.

Shane considered himself the luckiest fucking man on earth, for Ryan to have talked to him on that New Year’s party, two years ago. It felt, at the same time, like a forever and like yesterday. Shane glanced down at his contract, lost in memory.

“You never did tell what that means,” Ryan’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The tattoo.”

Shane looked up at him, sipping his drink. He let his hand drop. “Nothing fancy. After college, I wanted something to commemorate the occasion. A tattoo was the most permanent thing I could think of.” He’d thought of a backstory after that first time Ryan had asked, out of fear of someone else being curious, as well. “It’s really just some enochian symbols and other ancient languages. Not sure what it says.”

Ryan tilted his head to look. “That one means a blood oath of some kind,” he translated, tracing his fingers across the symbol. Shane’s skin tingled. “I’ve seen it a lot in old ritual transcriptions.”

“Blood oath, huh,” Shane said. “Well, knock me down with a feather. Never trust a tattoo artist.”

Ryan chuckled, still watching the tattoo. “Would you mind if I ever tried to actually translate it?” He asked, glancing at Shane with a hopeful look. “I’d need a shit ton of books, but I think I could manage it. During a show break, or something.”

“Don’t you need rest during the breaks?” Shane countered, withdrawing his hand. “You work too much. I get worried.”

“I get enough rest,” Ryan insisted. “I just think it’d be interesting. I mean, aren’t you curious?”

Shane shrugged. “Not curious enough to translate ancient languages for fun. I’m not that nerdy.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. Shane liked to think he looked a little fond. “I’m not—okay, I am. But I just genuinely think it’d be interesting. Plus,” he nudged Shane, grinning, “more time spent with me.”

“Well, that’s always a bonus. You know how I cherish these moments spent with you.”

“I sense sarcasm.”

“Oh, no, I’d never.” Shane sobered up, eyeing Ryan. “Seriously, though. I do cherish them. And you.”

Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it, blushing slightly. “No one’s ever said they _cherish_ me before,” he said. “What fucking century do you come from?”

Shane grinned. “Just take the compliment, Bergara.”

“Never.” Ryan grinned back. “Madej.”

Shane took a sip of his champagne, glancing at the clock on the wall, and choked a little. “It’s a minute to twelve,” he wheezed as Ryan looked at him with concern. “We need to do the count down, Ry.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ryan agreed. He pulled his phone out and set it on the table with the clock open. “Thirty seconds.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Six.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One—”

They clinked their glasses in a toast, spilling some of the champagne to the carpet. Ryan wrapped his free arm around Shane’s shoulders, leaning up to kiss him. They broke off, grinning, the corners of their eyes crinkled.

“Happy twenty-seventeen,” Shane said quietly.

“May it be an excellent year,” Ryan replied.

“To a good year,” Shane said. His throat felt dry, and his chest tight.

“To a good year,” Ryan echoed, taking a sip. “For both of us.”

 

17th of May 2017

 

Their seats where all the way in the back of the plane, squished in the final row. Ryan took the window seat and Shane crammed himself in between him and the man to his right, who’d decided to splay his elbows as intrusively as he possibly could, taking over both the arm slides. Shane could’ve done something about it, if he’d wanted to – but he hadn’t tried using his powers since Ryan had kissed him, the first time. It didn’t feel right, especially when he was lying to Ryan about who – or rather, what – he was.

They took off half an hour late due to traffic. The seat belts felt restrictive, and the entire plan like a death trap. Shane had a whiskey on rocks to calm his nerves down, whilst Ryan poked fun at him.

“So, you’re fine with ghosts and demons, but airplanes? _That’s_ what scares you?” He asked, grinning at Shane like a man who’d won the lottery. He was the picture book of calmness – not fidgeting, not tapping with his fingers, not bouncing his leg.

Shane pursed his lips, bristling. “Planes are more likely to kill me than a fucking ghost,” he argued. “Planes are an actual risk, unlike ghosts which, might I remind you, aren’t even real.”

“Aw,” Ryan cooed. “You’re still a sceptic. Your stubbornness can be really adorable, you know.”

“It’s not,” Shane argued. “Nothing about me is adorable. I’m the realest—”

“—bitch?” Ryan interrupted, then broke into quiet laughter.

Shane downed the rest of his whiskey, and most certainly did not pout. “I’m hardcore,” he mumbled.

“Uh-huh,” Ryan hummed. “Obviously.”

He leaned his head against Shane’s shoulder and took his hand, entwining their fingers. Shane felt a sense of comfort settle over him, like a pleasant tidal wave.

“It’ll only be a seven-hour flight,” Ryan reminded him. “I vote that we take a really long nap in a dark room as soon as we get there.”

“Petition signed.” Shane was certain he wasn’t going to sleep a wink during the flight, no matter how tired he was. “How long to the hotel from the airport?”

Ryan shrugged. “Depends on traffic. An hour, hour and a half. Manhattan’s not that far from JFK. I just hope the hotel’s not actual garbage.”

Shane huffed. “After the place we stayed the night at last season, I’ll consider anything with walls and a bathroom a five-star palace.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Ryan argued, swatting at his stomach.

“There were _rats_ in our _sleeping bags_ , Ry,” Shane said vehemently. “And mould _everywhere_.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan conceded. He shifted around, looking for a more comfortable position. “I’m gonna try and get some sleep. Wake me up—”

“Before you go-go?”

“—before we land.”

 

The landing was pure hell and chaos. The plane shook and staggered so heavily that Shane was afraid it might spontaneously fall apart; he clutched Ryan’s hand like a lifeline through the entire thing, his nails pressing faint half-crescent moons into the back of Ryan’s hand.

After landing, Shane untangled their fingers. His palm was sweaty. Ryan shot him an amused look, as if to remind him, _really, planes?_

They made their way through immigration and into a taxi with Ryan navigating them through the airport. He gave the taxi driver their hotel address and the two of them clambered to the back of the car. Shane had to crouch to fit in, which Ryan laughed at – unfairly, Shane thought. They took off from the airport and into the city, driving way past the speed limit whenever traffic eased up.

New York was beautiful. Even the outskirts of town, the ratchet suburbs, were brimming with life and attitude. Shane, who’d planned on a nap, found himself watching the city unfolding before his eyes. He and Ryan held hands loosely, both leaning towards different windows and craning their necks to catch everything they could.

The drive to the hotel ended up taking a little less than two hours. They checked in and went to 9th floor for their room.

The first thing Shane did was to collapse face first onto the bed, his limbs spread out like a starfish. Ryan followed him in and flipped the lights on, giving an amused huff at the sight of Shane, face buried into a pillow.

“A nap?” He asked.

“Mmph,” Shane agreed, his voice muffled by the bed. Reluctantly, he rolled over to give Ryan some space, his eyes still closed. “I hate travelling.”

Ryan moved around the hotel room, closing the curtains and pushing their luggage around. “You hate most things,” he reminded him.

“Don’t hate you,” Shane mumbled. He felt exhausted down to his bone. “’S nice.”

“What is?” Ryan’s voice was closer now. Shane heard him take his shoes off and climb into bed, pulling the covers over them.

“You,” Shane replied, yawning. “We’re nice. This.”

“Go to sleep,” Ryan said, fondly.

Shane did, letting his tiredness wash over him and lull him to nothingness. The last thing he was aware of was Ryan wrapping his arm around Shane’s waist, holding him in place.

 

New York was even more beautiful when Shane wasn’t sleep deprived. They went through most of the major attractions they could in the first three days: Empire State, Statue of Liberty – NYPL because Ryan insisted that it would be interesting – the Met, and the sorts. Shane was happy just to see Ryan happy, and besides, he was genuinely interested in the city. It was a win-win all around.

On the fourth day of their week-long stay, Shane surprised Ryan with dinner plans. He’d reserved a restaurant near their hotel back when they’d booked the vacation, all in secret. They had a table for two and a bottle of wine waiting as they arrived, dressed to the nines.

They sat opposite to each other. Shane kept hiding his smile beneath his menu, but he had a feeling he was failing miserably, judging by the looks Ryan kept giving him. He couldn’t help but feel giddy and terrible at the same time – giddy, because he was able to do this, to have a nice dinner with Ryan and feel only love and peace – and terrible, because his time was still running out, and every second felt like a second wasted, every hour like a fleeting minute.

“I think I’ll have the chicken,” Ryan decided, pulling Shane from his thoughts.

“Doesn’t go with the wine at all,” Shane remarked, his mouth twitching into a grin.

“No,” Ryan agreed, trying to keep a poker face. “Not at all.”

They both went with chicken, perfectly suitable in its unfitness.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Ryan said for the fifth time that night. He was leaning his chin on his crossed fingers, elbows on the table. A small smile was playing on his lips. The candles on the table cast shadows on his face, constantly moving with the dance of the flames. “Really, this is…”

“Too much?” Shane asked, worry creeping into his tone. He’d been afraid to over-do it and make Ryan feel uncomfortable, which was why he’d gone for the most lowkey restaurant he could find that was still nice enough.

“No,” Ryan shook his head. “No, not too much, just… very sweet. I didn’t take you for the flowers and wine type of man, I guess.”

Shane smiled, sipping his wine. “I’m full of surprises.”

“What else are you hiding, hm?” Ryan teased. “That you’re secretly a double-agent working for the British government, here on a mission to seduce me?”

“To what end?” Shane asked. “What good are you to them?” He paused, smirking. “Or should I say, to us?”

“Maybe I’m getting too close with the alien theories,” Ryan said, at the time as their chicken arrived. The waiter shot him a curious look but said nothing, before leaving them alone with their meals.

“But then wouldn’t that make me FBI?” Shane tried the chicken – it was delicious. Even with the wine. “They’re the ones hiding everything from the population, right? Them, and the government. Oh, maybe I’m a government agent, did you think about that?”

They both broke into quiet laughter at the thought.

“You’re too much of a buffoon to be an agent,” Ryan decided.

“A _buffoon_?” Shane repeated, appalled but still grinning. “Really?”

“Yeah, all over-grown limbs and poor balance.”

“You love my over-grown limbs.”

Ryan smiled warmly at him over the candles. “I do,” he agreed. “I really do.”

 

Shane lied wide awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His stomach felt like a pit of snakes, twisting and turning around, biting at his skin. Ryan was asleep next to him, his arm thrown over Shane’s stomach. It used to feel like a comfort – now, all Shane wanted to do was run as far away as he could.

Ryan deserved better than this. Shane felt like a crook, letting their relationship evolve and grow all the while his clock was ticking down. How much did he have? He counted the months with his fingers – five. Five months to the dot.

He swallowed, his throat parched. The room was too dark and too lonely. What the fuck was he going to do, when that five months came up? Ryan had to know, and he had to know now. So that he could decide what to do. Shane wasn’t going to make these kinds of decisions for him by fleeing. This wasn’t Rachel, or Kieran. This was different. This was too important.

Shane sat up, leaning his back against the backboard of the bed. He shook Ryan’s shoulder gently, stirring him awake.

“Ry?” He whispered. “Ryan, wake up.”

Ryan mumbled something incomprehensible, turning around.

“Ryan,” Shane tried again, poking him. “Really, this is important.”

He saw Ryan open one eye and peer at him through the dark of the room. He blinked both eyes open and yawned, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. “At four in the morning?” He asked in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah,” Shane said. His voice was trembling. “The time is irrelevant. I need to… I have to tell you something.”

Ryan sat up as well, now looking wide awake. “What is it?”

Shane swallowed, writhing his hands. “I need to tell you something about—about me. And then you can decide what we do. But I don’t want you to feel pressured by this.”

Ryan frowned. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” he said slowly. “What is it, seriously?”

Shane took a deep breath, and let it out. He felt like he was going to throw up. “Almost seven years ago, I was… a very desperate man. You know, a sad man in his late twenties with no direction and heavy burdens. Anyway, I tried to…” He paused. “There was this bridge, on my way to home.”

“Oh, Shane—” Ryan started, taking his hands.

“No, let me finish,” Shane cut in. “Please, I need to…” He didn’t let go of Ryan’s hands. “Before I could do anything, this person appeared next to me. I thought it was someone trying to help. In a way I guess it was.” He pursed his lips, sighing. “Now, this will sound fucking ridiculous, and trust me, I _know_ , but… but that person was a demon. And they made a deal with me.”

Ryan blinked at him in complete silence for nearly a minute. Then he burst into laughter, bordering on hysterical. “That’s your confession?” He asked. “That you’re a demon? Fuck, dude, I know. I’ve known for a while.”

Shane frowned. “What?”

Ryan let out a relived sigh, his shoulders slugging. “I thought this was going to be something bad,” he laughed. “No, seriously, remember when we visited Father Thomas in that church? Your fucking tattoo started burning up and your eyes flickered. And before that, I’ve heard you at locations, talking to the things in there. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and then, you know, when we visited Bear Mountains it was just confirmed. I followed you, and there you were. Talking to a demon. And I thought, okay then. This is a thing. And I’m okay with it.”

“You are?” Shane asked, dubious. “I thought you were terrified of demons?”

Ryan swatted at his arm. “Who’s going to be terrified of you?” He asked. “Like I said, a complete buffoon.”

Shane stomach started detangling itself, before he remembered what he’d failed to mention. The snakes returned, nibbling and squirming. “There’s something else,” he said. “And this is actually serious.”

Ryan sobered up immediately. “Yes?”

Shane’s palms felt sweaty. “When I made that deal, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. I fell for it, you know? But, the thing is, that deal… it’s going up in five months.”

“Which means?” Ryan sounded worried. He edged closer to Shane, sitting next to him. He was still holding Shane’s hand like Shane wasn’t a monster, like he deserved better.

“Which means that in five months, I’m going to hell.” Shane paused. “Permanently.”

“No,” Ryan countered.

Shane looked up at him. “No, seriously, I am—”

“No,” Ryan repeated. He tightened his grip on Shane. “No, fuck that. I’m smart – I’ll find a way to reserve the contract. I did some courses on law in college, and maybe laws in hell are different than in America but they’re pretty much the same thing, anyway, so. I’ll find something. We’ll fix this.”

“I don’t think this is something we can fix,” Shane said weakly. “Ry…”

“No,” Ryan said again. “I’m serious. I’m not giving up on you because of some fucking contract you made seven years ago, when you weren’t thinking clearly. I’m not. Because I—I love you.”

“Oh.” Shane’s chest felt like it was going to implode. “You—what?”

“Love you,” Ryan reiterated. “Me. I do. That.”

“Oh,” Shane repeated. “I—me too. You. I don’t love myself. I mean I do, sometimes, but mostly you.”

“Good,” Ryan said. He laughed gently, rubbing at his eyes. “Jesus Christ. We’re a downright fucking tragedy, you know that, right?”

Shane smiled, resting his forehead against Ryan’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he mumbled. “We’ll fix this.”

“We’ll fix this,” Ryan promised shakily. “We will.”

 

21st of October 2017

 

They stood on the bridge holding hands. Shane wondered whether Ryan felt as nervous as he did, waiting for the clock to turn four. The railings they were leaning against had been changed during some renovations, Shane noted. They were now clean of graffiti, for the time being.

He glanced to his left, and saw that the chip of stone he’d kicked seven years ago was still there, firmly lodged into the side of a building. He smiled, briefly, before turning to look back at Ryan.

Ryan was staring straight ahead, his jaw set into a tight line. They’d both been awake the whole night, waiting for the inevitable to happen. Shane had wanted it to be on this bridge. It should end where it all started.

Shane looked at his wrist watch. “Two minutes,” he said, and it sounded more like a warning.

“I’m ready,” Ryan said. He sounded as tense as he looked, but his grip on Shane’s hand was as gentle as it had ever been. “Bring it on, demon.”

“You do realise you could be talking to me?”

Ryan’s stony face broke into a brief, amused smile. “Can’t believe my boyfriend is a fucking demon,” he muttered. “Actually, yeah, I can. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Really, it was,” Shane agreed. “I’m just glad it was me.”

Ryan shot him a fond look from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad, too.”

“I don’t think—” Shane started, but before he could finish, the air in front of them shimmered and glitched. A portal of some sort opened up, and from the vast darkness, a figure stepped out. The portal closed behind them with a pop.

“Rosier,” Shane greeted. He stepped closer to Ryan, pressing their arms together. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it most certainly isn’t.”

Rosier grinned lazily, regarding the two of them. “Aren’t you looking adorable?” They cooed. “A couple of scouts.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan said, and Shane wanted to stomp on his foot. “We know what you’re here for.”

“Yes,” Rosier agreed. “The contract is coming up, Shane, and I believe we had a deal. My boss will be _super_ pissed if I don’t deliver, so…” They tapped at their wrist in the place where a watch would be. “Tick tock.”

Shane opened his mouth to speak, but Ryan beat him to it. “I’ve been doing some reading,” he said, standing up straight. “If I could, I’d take this shit to the court, but I don’t think they accept cases of demonic contracts so we’ll just have to do it here.”

Rosier lifted a curious brow. “Oh?” They asked. “Well, do tell me what you’ve been reading up on.”

Ryan shifted nervously; Shane tightened his grip. “First of all, the circumstances under which the contract was made make it illegal,” he started. “A contract is not legally binding if one person lacks the capacity for it – for example, if they’re a child, or in a compromised state of mind. I’d think that someone trying to jump off a bridge whilst drunk doesn’t have the capacity to make rational decisions.”

Shane flinched minutely. “I was in a bad place, and you took advantage of me,” he translated. “And that won’t fly.”

“Secondly,” Ryan continued, “there should always be at least one person to witness the contract. Since you two were alone, there was no one to supervise that the contents of the contract were fair and that both parties understood the terms in all their capacity.”

“I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and I should’ve hired a lawyer,” Shane translated.

“ _Thirdly_ , and lastly,” Ryan said, “you had malicious intents when proposing the contract, veering towards illegal ends. If the contents of the contract include or imply any criminal acts, like finance crimes or mind control, it is not legally binding.”

“Therefore, all of this is bullshit, and I refuse to go to hell,” Shane finished.  

Rosier watched them quietly for a while. Shane’s chest was tight, like a bundle of ropes had been tied across it and someone was pulling down hard, making him suffocate. Ryan’s fingers were twitching slightly. Shane didn’t dare to take his eyes away from Rosier, but he thought he saw Ryan getting paler.

“Well,” Rosier said eventually. They began to clap, slowly and sardonically. “Bravo for that performance. I’ll confess, I’ve never had anyone try to apply law to these situations. Usually it’s more _oh, woe me, please let me go, I beg of you_. Points for originality.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan spat. “We’re not your playthings; we’re people. And you’re not taking him away from me.”

Rosier smiled. “In love, are we? Touching. Shane, I’ll admit, I didn’t think you could come this far.”

“It’s easy to climb up when you’re at the bottom,” Shane said. “And look at that – you haven’t climbed at all.”

Rosier shrugged. “I’m about to get a promotion,” they said. “I’ll move on to seducing corporate business men; that’ll be fun.”

“We don’t give a fuck about your career,” Ryan hissed. He let go of Shane’s hand and lifted his arm up, showing the tattoo off. “This contract is illegal, and we refuse to comply with its terms.”

Rosier watched the tattoo, and the two of them. Then they sighed, closing their eyes and pressing the bridge of their nose with their fingers. “Satan help me,” they mumbled, “but I’ve always been a sucker for a love story.” Rosier opened their eyes. “You know what? _Fine_. I’ll let you go, but on one condition.”

“What?” Shane asked, suspicious.

Rosier grinned. “Send me an invite to the wedding.” They laughed. “No, that’s not it. I mean, please do, but my condition is that you’ll remain as a demon. I’ll give you the rest of your life to live as you wish, but on the day you do die, I’m taking you to hell. You’ll get my job. Deal?”

Shane blinked. “That’s it?”

Rosier shrugged. “Like I said, I’m a sucker for a romance. Besides, I have another contract or two coming up today and they should be enough to get me that promotion. So, yes. Those are my terms.”

Shane turned to look at Ryan. Their eyes met. “What do you think?” Shane asked quietly. “I mean – I’d stay like this. A demon.”

Ryan huffed in laughter, shaking his head slightly. “I already told you, I don’t give a fuck about that. Be a demon, so what? Maybe we can’t have a church wedding, but that’s about it.” He looked at Shane seriously. “I don’t mind,” he reiterated. “I really don’t.”

“Well, then.” Shane turned back to Rosier, who was looking amused. “I’ll take your deal.”

Rosier clapped once, excitedly. “Excellent,” they exclaimed. “You know, I was hoping for something like this. When I first met you, you had more hope than they usually do. More of a chance at succeeding in achieving something good. I’ve watched you stumble and fall, and now – warms my heart, truly, to see the two of you.” They sighed wistfully, and waved their hand. The portal re-opened behind them. “You won’t see me again,” they promised. “No one will harass you. Make the best of this, yeah?”

Rosier stepped backwards into the portal and disappeared, as if melting into it. The portal swivelled, getting smaller and smaller until it, too, disappeared with a small _pop_.

Shane and Ryan stood alone on the bridge, staring at the spot where the portal had just been.

“Did it…” Shane tried. His voice felt hoarse. “Did that just happen?”

“I think so, yeah,” Ryan confirmed shakily. “Did I just win a fucking legal case against a demon?”

Shane turned to look at him slowly, grinning so widely he was afraid his face might break. “Ryan Bergara, you’re a fucking genius.”

“Oh, well,” Ryan said. He grinned back at Shane, stepping closer. “I guess I knew what I signed up for when I first saw you and you had enochian symbols for a tattoo.”

“Guess you did,” Shane agreed. He let out a nervous laughter; his chest felt light for the first time in a while. “We did fix it, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, leaning closer for a kiss. “We did.”

Behind them, the sun started to slowly climb its way up.


End file.
